Until the Earth is Free
by Randomcat100
Summary: 1831. Even a year before their revolution, les amis are planning their barricades. But with the promise of a new world, a threat ensues as the police become involved. Meanwhile, Éponine is caught between the man she loves and her unexplainable duty to her family. But danger lies in both worlds. None of them know what will happen to them in a year's time. But we do.
1. Chapter 1

**Until the Earth is Free**

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Author's Note: Why, thank you for having a look at this fanfiction of mine! I hope you decide to stick around. This is now my third story for _Les Mis_ and, like the two before it, it's based off of the musical. I feel it's important to point this out. There are so many adaptations it can get confusing! So yes, this one is from the musical universe, but draws several details from the Brick as well. It may also take a few details from Shōjo Cosette, the anime.

A warning: this story will contain mild sexual content, mostly at the hands of Montparnasse. It may grow dark as featuring themes of rape. However, there will be little to no violence or coarse language.

**::**

_June 5, 1831  
366 days_

Paris at its most beautiful. In the mid-evening, with the sun setting and casting a faint orange glow over the city. The faint glow, seemingly settling itself into every crack in the cobblestones, in the woodwork of every building. Warming the stones. That half-light breathed in the city's very heart. Such a perfect and beautiful sunset not a soul could look into it and find their breath taken away.

The sunset was beauty, it was hope, and it marked one day less to be lived on this earth. Another day gone. But there is a sort of beauty in letting go.

Amongst the filth, in the slums of San-Michel, a boy strode confidently through the streets with his head held high. A skinny urchin of a boy, just ten years old. Overlong blond hair hung in his eyes and his feet were bare and blistered. But he walked with an air of childlike confidence and pride.

The boy arrived in front of a café, one with a weather-worn sign and dirty awning. He opened the door, and casually waltzed through the café, up the stairs, and into the hidden attic room. He looked around as he shut the door behind him. Nobody was here yet. Nobody that was, except for …

The boy walked over to the table and poked the sleeping man. A bottle of wine lay on the table, empty, and a drained, chipped glass sat on the floor. The boy kicked it out of the way and poked the sleeping man again. "R. R, wake up."

Unfortunately, Grantaire had once again drunken himself into a stupor and there was no getting him back now. The boy left him where he was and sat down opposite him, putting his feet up on the table before Enjolras walked in and scolded him. He reached for the empty bottle of wine and shook it, hoping for a few drops of the liquid to fall, but it was dried out. _Leave it to Grantaire to drink every last drop_, the boy thought to himself, sulking. He'd never had wine – and perhaps for good reason, seeing as he was just ten – but that was one of his life's goals. To try wine.

The door opened, and the boy looked up in alarm. It could only be Enjolras. It wasn't, though. It was a girl. Dressed in a ragged white blouse and a muddy red skirt, a worn green shawl wrapped around her skinny shoulders. Like the boy's, her face was streaked in dirt and there were bruises down her arms. "Gavroche," said Éponine. "What have I said about putting your feet up on the table like that?"

Guiltily, his feet slid away and came to rest on the floor. Crossing his arms, Gavroche studied his sister. "'Ponine, you're comin' to a meeting!"

"Oh," said Éponine with a shake of her head. "Oh, no. I was just wondering if Monsieur Marius had arrived yet. I see he hasn't, though, so I'll be going … I shall wait for him at the door." She turned to go, long black hair swishing out behind her.

"Wait!" Gavroche called, and she stopped. "Wait. Don't go ... you mustn't go. I hardly ever see ya. Stay here for a bit."

Éponine smiled and rested her head against the door frame. "Just for a bit. I'm waiting for Monsieur Marius." But she shut the door and sat down next to the drunken Grantaire. She reached for the bottle of wine and shook it, searching for a few drops. The bottle was empty, of course, and she brushed it aside.

"You shouldn't drink. You're only sixteen, and a girl," Gavroche scolded.

"Neither should you. You're only ten, and a child," she shot back. "And anyhow, I've drunken before and I'm fine." Sitting back, she seemed to consider this the end of the matter. Addressing her younger brother, she added, "How are you then, Gavroche? I've not seen you in a few weeks."

"I'm grand," the ten-year-old boy answered. "Life on the streets have got to be better than having 'Parnasse in it. Speaking of which, is he the cause of those bruises on your arm?" He pointed. "If he is I'll be sure to give that bastard a bruise or two myself."

Éponine shoved her shawl downwards to hide them. "It's nothing," she muttered. "And watch your tongue." Here the door opened and Enjolras stepped in. His eyes fell on Grantaire and he sighed.

"He's a lost cause, isn't he? – oh! Hello." He noticed Éponine sitting there. The girl stood and waved the Gavroche, murmuring, "I should be going." She disappeared down the stairs. Enjolras glanced after her before turning his attention to Gavroche.

"Your sister?"

"Yes. She wanted to see Marius." Gavroche shrugged. He reached over the table and shook Grantaire's shoulder again, more harshly this time. "R! Grantaire!" This time Grantaire mumbled something blearily and raised his head slightly, eyes half-open. Then he fell back onto the table.

"Heavens," Enjolras muttered bitterly. "We cannot have even one meeting without that fool drinking himself into a stupor. I shall have to find him a hansom cab to take home. Again."

The meeting began soon after, as the rest of _les amis_ began to arrive. Gavroche spent most of the time trying to wake Grantaire again. "Give it up, child," Enjolras told him. "He won't wake any time soon. Focus, now."

Gavroche made a face but turned his attention to Enjolras. The "Leader in Red" was drawing out some kind of plan on a large slate. "We will need to make more red flags," he was saying. "As red is the color of our revolution and our cause. This shall be imperative in the future. Who here has red items of clothing in their homes?"

"I've a red tablecloth," Combeferre spoke up.

"Excellent. Take care to bring it in tomorrow … "

**::**

Marius made his way down the stairs in a hurry. He always took care to be one of the first to escape the meetings. Enjolras would often chide him for seeming to be "in a faraway land" during meetings or lecture him for his constant tardiness. If Marius escaped early he would be able to avoid said lectures if only Grantaire was drunk enough to prove a distraction.

As he pushed the door to the café open, he felt a hand grab his arm. The young man yelped in surprise, but when he spun around he saw it was only Éponine. She was smiling at him, still holding his arm in a tight grasp.

"Boo," she said with a hearty laugh. She always laughed loudly and seemingly without any restraint. Éponine was not the type of girl to giggle lightly. "Did I startle you, M'sieur Marius?"

"A bit, yes," Marius murmured, shaking his arm free of her grasp. "I've not seen you about much these past few days."

Éponine shrugged, sinking down into a sitting position. She sat atop a crate and looked up at him with a half-smile. "You can always find me, if only you look. And anyhow, you've not been about home much either. I came to look for you before the meeting, but I must have just missed you, M'sieur."

_Home_ would be the Gorbeau tenement, of course, that gutter of a flat complex in the outskirts of town. Where Marius rented a room and the Thénardiers – Éponine's family – did not.

"I've been away," Marius murmured absently. He sat down next to Éponine on the crate and she shuffled aside to give him room. A sigh, and he said, "I should be going – before Enjolras comes out." He rose, and Éponine leapt to her feet too.

"Shall you be returning tonight?" she asked quietly. "I've missed you terribly."

"I think so, yes," Marius answered. "Later tonight."

She flashed him a sour look and shrugged. "Very well, then. I shall see you tonight. I look forward to it." She started to go, then paused with a half-smile. "And, M'sieur, perhaps you can show me what's in those silly books of yours!"

"They're law books!" Marius called after her, but she was gone already. With a sigh, he began to walk in the opposite direction. He intended to return "home" that night, but first he would … what would he do? Perhaps he'd take a stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg …

**::**

Éponine met her sister under the Pont Neuf. Azelma was seated cross-legged, drawing patterns in the dust with one finger, her auburn hair falling in her eyes. She looked up when she saw Éponine and cocked her head to one side.

"You've come. I'll have you know _he_ came."

Éponine bent down next to her. _He_ was their codename for Montparnasse. She cursed freely. "Blast." Then, with a sigh, "He's at the Gorbeau place now, is he not?"

Azelma turned back to drawing in the dust. "I don't know. I delivered those letters of Papa's. There were quite a lot of them." She did not look up as she said this, her dark eyes following the letters she was drawing. Her name. Azelma. She spelled it out, _Aselma_.

"Here, you've spelt it wrong," Éponine murmured. She wiped out the _s_ and replaced it with a _z_. "You see?"

Azelma stared at the word before saying, "I see. It's been such a long time since I've written out my own name." She stood up and pulled her sister up with her. "Come. Let's return home. One of the rich gents I delivered that letter to said he'd come."

"Which one?" asked Éponine.

"I don't know. I've forgotten his name. But the actor."

"A rich actor?" Éponine scoffed.

"Don't ask _me_. He might be a playwright, really. But Papa told me he was an actor."

Éponine figured the man was a playwright. She didn't know of any rich actors. She and Azelma would, of course, have to tell Thénardier that in fact both sisters were there. They'd both receive a beating if he found out Éponine waited for their neighbor outside of a café while Azelma went about his dirty work. Or if Montparnasse told him she had not been there.

Éponine did not know when she stopped thinking of their father as _Papa_ and referring to him as _Thénardier_. It was around the time the inn shut down and the family moved to Paris. The sixteen-year-old still remembered that day as thought it were yesterday.

As the sisters began to walk back to the Gorbeau tenement, Azelma said, "'Ponine? Are we going to see Montparnasse again today?"

Éponine gritted her teeth. "Not if I can help it, we shan't."


	2. Chapter 2

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: Thank you all, for your wonderful and kind reviews! As always, they truly mean a lot. Indeed, the Thénardier family will play a large role in this story, and Cosette will be introduced soon too. However, to all of you: I do not wish to disappoint so I'll say it now. This is not, in fact, an Enjolras/Éponine story. It is simply a fictional account of events that happened in between the story we are given in the musical and I am trying to make it as canonical as possible. To guest reviewer Jaconda, my reply is in the review page.

_WARNING_: this chapter contains some sexual content and reader caution is advised.

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**::**

_June 6, 1831_  
_365 days_

The sky bled black night, a darkness seeping into the air and consuming the city, devouring it under its black cloak. With the beauty of the June sunset gone, the world was cold and careless. No stars shone tonight, even as the clock struck twelve o'clock and a new day began. The only light came from the faint, flickering flames of the streetlights but they were a dim source of hope for the wretched of Paris.

In the heart of the city, where one found the Notre Dame or the Pont d'Austerlitz, the streets were quiet and peaceful. Curtains were drawn but leaked out light from the wealthy's gas-lamps. It was the opposite near the Gorbeau tenement. A part of the city which thrived at night. Years ago, this part of town was considered respectable. Humble, but respectable. Now this part of the city consisted of slums and dirt and beggars. All of which Éponine and Azelma were well accustomed to.

A group of haggard looking women shared a large, worn, woolen blanket, huddled together neath a streetlight and sewing by the faint flame. The worst sort of men roamed the streets, leering at the two young girls who passed them by. Children slept close together in the alleyways, huddled together in a pathetic attempt to stay warm. Women in low-cut, torn gowns, faces smeared in makeup, large hats with feathers on their heads, corsets showing, lined up against the wall of a building, always smiling at customers who grabbed cruelly at their merchandise. A girl who could be no older than thirteen, wearing a dirty red dress cut above her bony knees, led a much older man wearing a cravat by the hand to a back alley. He had his arm around her. One hand stroked her naked breasts, which had barely begun to develop. With his other hand he clung to her rear. He did not let go.

Azelma stared, then turned away. Éponine could not bear to look.

Éponine pushed open the door of the Gorbeau tenement. The rickety stairs seemed more menacing than they usually did, like a stairway to doomsday. She hated climbing those stairs, dreaded it every day. She dreaded opening the door to the decrepit apartment and having to see her father and mother. Having to see Montparnasse, who always seemed to be lurking and waiting for her. And Monsieur Marius was hardly ever there, either. Éponine never knew whom she detested more: her father, who allowed Montparnasse to do those _things_ to her and slapped her if she fought; or her mother, who sat back and allowed it all to happen right before her very eyes, and turned Gavroche out to the streets when he was barely seven.

Azelma wasn't behind her any longer. The younger sister was idling, drawing water from the well in the front of the building. The handle was rusty and often broke. It was a fine excuse to avoid a few minutes with the family. Éponine didn't blame her one bit. Or, at least, not terribly much.

She mounted the stairs, every creak of those steps her executioner sharpening his axe. She arrived at the landing. She closed her eyes and took one long, deep breath. She stepped forwards, moved slowly down the hall. Her feet like lead. She arrived before the door. She pushed it open.

They were there. They were all there. Her mother seated on the chair, taking long swigs from a bottle of liquor. Her father seated on the finer chair, the one with the beat-up little cushion it. His feet up on the desk as he smoked from his pipe. And Montparnasse – oh, dear God, Montparnasse, lying on the bed her mother and father shared. His legs were spread out. He was the first to see her. He was always the first to see her. When he set his cold eyes upon her he gestured at his legs and the bed as if invitation.

It was never an invitation.

Her father was the first to speak. "There ya are, you stupid brat. Where do ya think ya've been, eh? Loiterin' about while your family suffers here, in this slum of a home? And where is that useless little sister of yours? _Azelma_!"

Azelma appeared in a heartbeat. She held the bucket in her hands. "I'm here, Papa," she gasped. "I was fetching some water. But the damn crank was broken. You know how it always breaks."

Thénardier waved her off, focusing his attention on Éponine. "Very well. But ya haven't told me where _you've_ been."

"I was delivering those letters of yours," she muttered. "If you don't mind. Perhaps next time I shall stay here while you deliver the letters about the city. And I might loiter about, smoke, and drink, as you do. Perhaps then – "

Thénardier was on his feet in a flash and his slap cut her words short. It was hard enough to make her stumble and she nearly fell backwards. Hastily, she scramble to her feet and stood before him, trembling but trying not to let it show.

"Don't you get saucy with me, now, young _mademoiselle_. Perhaps I _shall_ keep you here tomorrow. I'm sure 'Parnasse would be glad to keep you company."

The threat of Montparnasse, the only thing she really feared, was enough to make her keep her mouth shut. Éponine set her jaw and turned away. Thénardier smiled cruelly. "I should have thought so. Azelma!"

Azelma, who had been preoccupied in splashing the water over her dirt-streaked face, looked up grimly. "Yes, Papa?"

"I've a job for you, my girl. You must buy a few things for me. I've written you a list and I trust you to follow its instructions."

The younger girl stood in protest. "But _Papa_," she whined, "Papa, I'm so very tired. I … 'Ponine and I have been running all about the city delivering your letters. I'm tired, Papa. Please, in the morning."

He took several quick strides towards her, and in a heartbeat he had a hold of her hair. Azelma cried out, letting a whimper escape. "You'll do as I say," he hissed, dropping her again. She fell to the floor in a heap, quickly scrambling to stand.

"All right, all right!" It came out as a wail. "Please. Give me the list." She turned to Éponine and reached out her hand. "Let's go,"

A relieved Éponine began to follow her younger sister, but Montparnasse's icy drawl stopped her short. "'Ere now, I think our 'Ponine's 'ad enough work for the day … let 'er rest fer t'night. Girl deserves it."

It all happened in a rush after that. Azelma left and the next thing Éponine knew, she found herself lying in her bed, waiting for sleep to take power over her. In the dingy ditch of an apartment, there was a very small windowless room off to the side, no bigger than a broom cupboard. It had nothing else in it other than the small bed she shared with Azelma and the worn desk shoved messily in the corner where a half-melted candle would sit, the only source of lighting in the little room. There wasn't any room to move.

Éponine blew the candle out, praying for sleep to claim her. But the sixteen – year – old knew Montparnasse would come. He always did. And just as she'd expected, he stepped into her room, approaching her with cold speed. A terrible, sly grin on his face. He sat down on the bed, gripping both of her arms tightly, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes spring with tears. She squirmed and writhed at first, but he was much stronger than she. And so, as he pulled away the ragged, worn fabric of her skirt, she let it happen.

**::**

When she woke, after it was over, there was a form next to her in the bed. Montparnasse? Too weary to open her eyes, she kicked hard at the figure, emitting a wail and a bleary, "Ouch! 'Ponine, whatever was _that_ for?"

Éponine forced her eyes open, turned her head to see Azelma, not Montparnasse, next to her. Her sister was curled in fetal position, curled up into the little ball wherein she kept herself hidden. Her voice still muffled, Azelma mumbled, "Why did you kick me? I'm terribly tired; I've only just returned."

Éponine rolled over slightly. "I'm sorry. I thought you were _him_."

Azelma closed her eyes yet again. "Well, I'm quite sure I'm not. I purchased the things Papa requested. It's done. He gave me a slice of the bread for my efforts."

Hearing these words, Éponine sat bolt upright. "Bread? Did you say bread?"

"He had me buy a very small loaf. Not the nice white bread, only the dark kind. He said I might have a slice. The rest, I believe, he's already had. Along with the beer. And the whiskey. And the wine. You'll want to be wary of him this morning. He's quite drunk."

So her father was drunk again. It was hardly a surprise, and Éponine climbed out of the tiny bed, pressing herself flat against the will and inching her way out of the room. She pushed the door open and stepped out.

Her mother didn't seem to be around, and, thank the heavens, neither did Montparnasse. Her father, on the other hand, was seated at his desk and scribbling away at a letter. Just as Éponine began to slip out the front door, ignoring the soreness in her legs, his shouted slur came from behind her: "Where do ya think you're going, girl?"

Éponine's back stiffened and she stepped out the door. "I am going out," was all she said, and then she was gone, slamming the door shut behind her. Out … out … had to get out … she was half-running, half-tumbling down the stairs, when she fell directly into a figure mounting them. Strong arms took hold of her waist, swooping her up and down onto the next step. She felt his touch on her bare arms, and it sent a sweet sort of chill down her spine.

"M'sieur Marius!" Éponine exclaimed, breaking into an involuntary grin. She fumbled with her ragged shawl, hiding the bruises on her arms. There was no hiding the fresher ones near her wrists, so she folded her hands behind her. "Good morning to you, M'sieur Marius."

"Éponine," he answered her, smiling and nodding. "You are up very early. Wherever might you be headed?" His smile was light and easy, his teeth showing slightly. A stubborn little curl of light brown hair fell in his eyes. He did not seem to notice.

Éponine lifted a hand and hesitantly tucked it away. "Your hair was in your eyes, m'sieur. And … well now, we cannot have that now, can we?"

Marius gave a brief chuckle. "It is terribly inconvenient, yes. Er. Thank you, Éponine."

"Don't thank me," she scoffed. "Why don't you accompany me to the Jardin du Luxembourg? Would you mind terribly? It's still very early and no one would see that you are with a poor girl like myself, m'sieur."

He looked hesitant, but at last smiled and nodded. He offered his arm, like a true gentlemen. "Very well. It would honor me to go for a stroll with my friend. However, I most certainly do not care what _they_ think. I've no intention of causing a scandal and none shall arise."

She took his arm gladly, and they walked in silence. She wished to rest her head against his shoulder, or for him to lift her up and hoist her to sit on his shoulders. Her father used to do that, when she and Azelma were young. In the happier days, before the Man in the Yellow Coat came to take the Lark away. Back when he was her Papa and not Thénardier. Or, at least, when he could be bothered to.

In the park it was a bit more crowded. Or, at least, there were a few bourgeois citizens strolling down the paths. Ladies took the arms of gentlemen, allowing themselves to be escorted and shown off in their finery and bonnets. Not like Éponine, who seemed to lead Marius and not the other way around. A few glanced at Marius, holding the arm of Éponine, in her rags and dirty shawl, her black hair falling messily around her thin shoulders.

"Let go of my arm," she ordered. "I don't want you to cause some scandal. Let go of my arm, m'sieur. You must!"

Marius laughed lightly. "Don't be silly, Éponine."

She attempted to shake free of his sturdy grip. "Let go, I say! I insist!" But he was stronger and it took more effort to free her arm. As she did, she stumbled and crashed into a figure. Both of them tumbled to the ground, and she heard someone exclaim.

Éponine found herself scrambling to her feet before she could see who she'd bumped into. She stumbled backwards, towards Marius, reaching for his arm. But when she groped, his arm was not crooked for her to take. Instead, he was standing quite straight, his eyes wide and fixed on the person Éponine had run into. It was a girl. A young lady.

_Oh, God_. Éponine stared at Marius and the way he gaped, then at the young lady. She seemed to be about Éponine's own age, perhaps a bit older. She wore a long and gorgeous white gown, a lace-trimmed bonnet atop her head with the ribbons undone. Her ash blond locks falling neatly about her shoulders. Marius stared at her and she stared back, each of them seemingly lost in the world of each other.

A man approached the girl, an older gentleman in a waistcoat. He took the young lady's arm and began to pull her away. "Are you all right?" Éponine heard him asking. "You ran off when the wind took your bonnet and I lost you … whyever are you covered in dirt? What happened, Cosette … ?" And here they walked out of range.

Marius was still staring after her, his mouth half-open in a gape. But new thoughts were racing through Éponine's mind. _Cosette_ … the Lark … no, it couldn't be. Surely there were other girls named Cosette. Surely they, too, had blond hair … it could not be …

_Éponine is a young girl, a child, again. She's wearing her favorite dress, a long pink thing with lace at the collar and her blue bonnet. The rag doll she's always treasured, Émélie, is cradled in her arms. Azelma is upstairs. Papa is out. Maman is working in the kitchen, making soup for the customers. And there is the Lark, huddled under the table like the pathetic thing she is, scrubbing vigorously. Her blond hair is falling in her eyes._

_Éponine and Azelma have been playing and the Lark is out in the dark woods, fetching water. It makes the little Thénardier girls giggle to think of her crying out there all alone. But she's coming back now and there is a strange man wearing a yellow coat with her. And he takes her away and buys her the prettiest doll in the toy shop window. Éponine wonders if the Lark will come back, but she never does. And from here the inn stops getting business, and then they leave for Paris and they lose The Baby and everything is wretched and miserable and Éponine, only twelve, hates it all and she wishes she could go back home to a time when things were happy and the silly Lark was there and did all the housework for them and Papa didn't drink quite so much and Maman was always kind and they had nice dresses and pretty dollies and she blames the silly, stupid, Lark for going away …and her name was Cosette Cosette Cosette Cosette …_

Marius's voice, always so nice to hear, broke Éponine from her thoughts. "Who was that girl?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why should I know? She's just some silly little bourgeois two-a-penny thing."

Marius sighed, his gaze still fixed on the place where she'd been, as if he could still see some ghostly presence of her. "That old man … I imagine he was her father – what did he call her? I did not hear it. I heard that the name ended in 'ette."

"I don't know," Éponine said again. "I heard nothing. I don't know who she is. Come along, m'sieur, we were having such a nice walk …" But inside, she was breaking, breaking into little bits that cried.

"Girl's names sounds so nice when they end in 'ette," Marius went on dreamily. "It suits a lady, don't you find?"

"Yes, yes," Éponine said impatiently. "Come now, m'sieur. Can't we carry on with our lovely stroll?"

"Find her for me, Éponine," Marius said suddenly. "Please."

Her voice rose. "However do you expect me to …"

"You're clever," Marius insisted. "You are. You know your way around, as you said yourself. Please. I'll … do anything."

She closed her eyes. Tears welled there and no matter what she did, she could not will them away. So she turned to face the trees and wiped at the tears with the back of her hand. "I shall do it. I shall try."

Then, very quietly and just to herself: "For you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: I can't believe I was so stupid … I forgot to credit the images used in my cover image, so I'll state them here. At the top we have Hugh Skinner as Joly and Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche, both from the 2012 movie. In the middle there is Eddie Redmayne and Aaron Tveit as Enjolras, from the 2012 movie. The bottom row finally features Samantha Barks as Éponine and Katie Hall as Cosette, from the 2012 movie and 25th anniversary, respectively.

An aside: I know that Cosette was a brunette and Marius had black hair in the book, but I still picture them as Katie Hall and Eddie Redmayne. I read the novel after seeing the musical, and by then the musical had mostly consumed my mind and visions of the characters. And since this story is based primarily off of the musical, I figure I am totally qualified to do this.

* * *

**::**

_June 6, 1831  
365 days_

The sun seemed brighter than usual. Its rays blessed the wealthy of the city, kissed their cheeks and warmed their skin. But the bourgeois blocked out the sun's warm beams. Parasols were held fashionably over ladies' shoulders, lined with fine lace. Top hats protected the men's heads, and the two walked arm in arm, in neat and orderly pairs. Some of the older ones had children. Little boys in tiny waistcoats and suits. Little girls in miniature versions of their mother's satin gowns and bonnets on their heads.

Conversation was small talk of the weather and wasn't the day just _lovely_. There was gossip about Mademoiselle Something who'd caused the most dreadful scandal and Madame So-and-so's dinner party last night, and the annoying habits of the servants. "I promise you, Mademoiselle, she was staring at my pearls as though she wished to snatch them from my very own neck and run off with them! Can you imagine?" "Why, yes, Monsieur, I agree, the sun is quite lovely today." "Hélène, my child, come back here … you shall soil your lovely new gown … Maman paid a great deal of money for that … "

Amongst this stiff, distinguished crowd, walked a young man in a waistcoat like all the others, a stack of papers in his hands, but unlike the wealthy citizens around him, he wore no hat and allowed his headful of blond curls to be seen. He was quite handsome for his twenty-two years, and a few daring young ladies snuck bold peeks at him. But as he went through his papers, Enjolras paid them no notice.

He was still in a lamentable temper over last night's failure of a meeting, and in fact had spent the entire night and a good part of the morning planning the next one. He had drawn up some pamphlets and had only just taken them to the printer's. The man in the shop, a stooped old fellow with tufts of snow-white hair sticking out from random places in his otherwise bald scalp, had given him a disapproving glance when he saw the pamphlet Enjolras wanted to print. "Oh … How many copies will that be, monsieur?"

"Make it twenty-five. No. Thirty. No. Thirty-five. Yes, thirty-five, if you please." Enjolras had cleared his throat. "Er, thank you."

The price for thirty-five pamphlets had been hefty, but a price Enjolras was not only able to pay, but more than willing to. He now read over the pieces of paper over and over, obsessively. Suddenly, a figure barely higher than his waist rammed into him at top speed, causing the student to stumble and drop his pamphlets. Like autumn leaves, they fluttered over the ground and scattered. Without meaning to, he cursed. "Damn it!"

He spun on the person who'd barreled into him so rudely, only to find himself staring down at the face of Gavroche, his dirty little face brightened with a cheeky grin. "I got ya," the ten-year-old teased.

Enjolras could have slapped that grin right off just then, but instead he sighed dejectedly. "_Hello_, Gavroche. You might help with these."

"What are they?" asked Gavroche, moving to gather them. "I can't read, so you must tell me what they say."

"Pamphlets, for our cause," Enjolras explained. "And now _you_ can run off. Stop being such a little pain, child," he added in a teasing manner, ruffling the young boy's overlong blond hair.

Gavroche scoffed, thrusting the gathered pamphlets at Enjolras. "Oi! You're talking to the King of the Streets here, _monsieur_ Enjolras." He crossed his arms over his little chest.

Enjolras ignored that comment, starting to count the pamphlets. "You've missed one. There are only thirty-four pamphlets here." But just as he said this, Gavroche was pulling out the one he had hidden in his jacket, which he handed over.

"Wondered if you'd miss it!" And then he took off, laughing all the way.

**::**

Éponine wandered the streets the rest of the day with seemingly no purpose. Like a lost puppy, she wove in and out of alleys following a scent. Her heart sharp with pain, she followed Cosette and that man. After leaving Marius' side, she'd began to walk the way Cosette and the man had gone, and seen them exiting a bakery.

Was it the Man in the Yellow Coat? He looked like Éponine remembered him, but that memory was hazy. She'd been so young, and after Cosette the Lark had left she hadn't thought about either of them. Or at least, not very much.

The Lark didn't look like a lark any longer. She was beautiful. As Éponine followed her, the more she looked at her, the more beauty she saw. The Lark walked arm in arm with the man, like a bourgeoisie, with her hair under that grand bonnet, spilling over her shoulder like golden silk. In her long white dress, its hem brushing against the cobblestones just so, the sun shining off of that ash blonde hair, she looked like some kind of … angel. She was beautiful, and Éponine hated her for it.

The man said something and she laughed, an almost musical tinkle of a laugh. " … How clever you are, Papa … "

_Papa? I do believe she had no father. The man isn't her father, is he? The Man in the Yellow Coat wasn't, but I'm quite sure this is him. _As the Lark glanced over her shoulder, Éponine ducked behind a streetlight.

She followed the pair, stealthy and careful in her way, to their home, a grand-looking home with a wrought-iron gate and a lovely garden with a stone bench and a small well. A small angel statue stood guard near the fence. The man pulled a key from his coat pocket and unlocked the gate. The Lark stepped daintily by and he shut it hurriedly behind him. Éponine noted, with a frown, the way he looked around before smiling and turning to the Lark. The two stepped inside, shutting the door to the fine home behind them, and that was the last she saw of either of them.

She didn't want to tell M'sieur Marius. Not yet. She wouldn't be able to stand it. He'd torn at her heart, sewn it back together, and yet again teared at the seams, all the while not even realizing what he was doing. And she, Éponine, crafted a happy image of herself just for him. But he never saw her there.

Tomorrow. She'd tell him she'd found the Lark tomorrow. But she wouldn't be able to return home tonight. She'd find a place in an alleyway, and perhaps that would be for the better.

**::**

_June 7, 1831_  
_364 days_

Grantaire staggered into the Musain at precisely five in the evening. He collapsed at the bar and slid a Franc across the counter. "The best you might purchase with this, if you please," he slurred.

The bartender took his coin and turned away to fix a drink. As soon as Grantaire had himself a bottle of the finest wine he could purchase with one Franc, he stumbled up the stairs and into the hidden attic room. Enjolras was already there, hunched over a table and thumbing through a stack of pamphlets. Gavroche was leaning over his shoulder, his bright eyes following Enjolras's every move. The boy admired the young man, admired his passion for the cause.

"But what might _I_ do?" the scruffy ten-year-old was saying.

"Nothing for the time being, seeing as you cannot read," Enjolras muttered distractedly. "Organize a little rally in the streets for me, or something similar. But not now, boy – we've a meeting in twenty minutes, or didn't you know?"

"I'm here more often – oh! 'R!" Thrilled, Gavroche turned away from Enjolras and dashed around the table to join the 28-year-old. Plopping down in the chair next to him, he reached for the bottle clutched so preciously in the drunk's hand. Grantaire pulled it out of his reach.

"Wine's not for children."

"I shall be eleven soon."

"When?"

"In December."

"It's June, young one," Grantaire chuckled. "You shan't be eleven for a while yet."

Gavroche pouted, but when the door opened he brightened visibly. A girl stood hovering in the doorway, her long black hair framing her gaunt face. Éponine smiled at her brother, then spoke up and asked, "I … suppose M'sieur Marius isn't around, then?"

"No, he _isn't_," Enjolras replied. "He is late quite frequently, but while you are here you may help with our meeting as you wait. We shall need some help sewing cockades. Can you sew?" He did not look up as he said this, but Gavroche leapt to his feet and took his older sister's hand.

"Yes, 'Ponine … " the young boy wheedled. "Oh, _do_ stay! You must! Ya can sew, can't you? Will you help make some cockades till Marius arrives?" He dragged her over to a table and presented her with a pile of fabric. Pieces of cloth blue, white, and red, the colors of the French flag.

Éponine stared at the fabric in front of her and looked away. "Oh, no … I mustn't. I mean, well … I shall wait for M'sieur Marius outside, all right?" She ruffled Gavroche's scraggly hair. "I'm sorry."

His face, so bright and childishly joyful before, crumpled like a rose in winter. "Oh …" the ten-year-old said softly. "All right. But, shall you see me again soon? Won't you visit me? I hardly ever see you around no more. Come see me soon. Please?"

Éponine took a careful breath. "All right," she said slowly, softly. "Tomorrow. I promise you. You may take me to the opera, just like you've always wanted to. But I really must be going now … I'm sorry …" She stood and hurried, out the room and down the stairs.

She nearly ran into M'sieur Marius on her way down the stairs. Second time in the past couple of days. Éponine nearly tripped on her way, but his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back to safety.

"Careful," he said, then blurted, "Have you found her? Oh, please tell me you have! These past two days, I've seen nothing but her and her angelic beauty. I cannot live without the girl."

Éponine swallowed. "Yes," she croaked. "Yes. Yes, I've found her."

Marius' arms flew around her once more, and this time he pulled her close into an embrace. The feeling of _him_ made Éponine feel pleasantly light-headed. Or, it would have had her heart not been crying out in pain.

"Thank you," Marius said, and then for good measure he said it again. "Oh, _thank_ you … do you know her name?"

"No," she lied hoarsely. "I only know where she lives. Follow me."

**::**

"It is getting late, Cosette," her Papa called from the house. "Do come in soon."

"_Soon_, Papa," she called back from her perch on the edge of the well. "Don't worry. It isn't terribly late … the sun hasn't set yet. Please, just give me a few more moments. I beseech you." She turned away from the window as the shutters closed. Her Papa would allow her a little while longer. He always did.

Cosette leaned her chin in her hand, gazing beyond the gate. She'd been thinking about the gentleman from the Jardin du Luxembourg the other day. In fact, he had been taking up quite a lot of space in her mind since that first day she saw him. But she was being silly, of course. She'd seen him for less than a minute in a park, didn't even know his name, and would most likely never see him again. And yet … just what _was_ it about the young man she found so gripping, so very attractive?

He'd been ravishingly handsome, for one. She couldn't deny that. His light brown curls and those bright green eyes, the copious freckles covering his face. The way he'd _looked_ at her, as if she was the only thing in the world. A look that made her feel warm inside. But it was so much more than that, really. Cosette had been fascinated by him – his attire clearly suggested wealth, and yet, he'd been walking arm in arm with a ragged street girl as though she were a lady with seemingly no qualms. He seemed to like her, but he didn't seem to love her as he might a wife. Not after the way he'd looked at Cosette.

Cosette shook her head. She was being so very silly. She was _never_ going to see the gentleman again. He didn't know anything about her – where she lived, or how very strict her Papa could sometimes be (she couldn't even imagine how he would react if she told him she might be in love), or for Heaven's sake, he didn't even know her name!

And Cosette knew nothing about him. She didn't know where he lived, or what his family might be like. And she did not know his name either. She was like a giggling schoolgirl fawning over a knight in shining armor.

And so it was that at this precise moment, something fell in a heap at her feet. Cosette let out a yelp of fright and surprise as she shot to her feet, hand clasped over her mouth. The figure who'd landed so clumsily in front of her, and she was looking down into that very face – freckles and all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Important Author's Note: I will be offline from Wednesday, May 7th to Sunday, May 11th due to a field trip for an extracurricular club at school. (Latin Club competition.) Most likely I won't be able to update again before I go, but I should be able to update somewhat shortly after my return. Thank you.

Also, yes, I had to have a conversation between Éponine and Enjolras in there. Just because this isn't an Enjonine … doesn't mean I don't have a weakness for it and some of my other Les Mis stories won't be Enjonine. But yes. This won't develop into a romance, sadly, but I just couldn't resist putting in a little exchange.

**::**

* * *

_June 7, 1831_  
_364 days_

How peaceful a garden can be at twilight. The faint glow emitted by the stars and the pale moon illuminated the flower petals and set them awash in a silvery light. Crickets chirped a symphony, the only sound and the entire garden seemed frozen with a blissful silence. The house just beyond was still, all shutters drawn, oil-lamps unlit and candles out. Valjean was the only figure awake, but one wouldn't think so at first glance. With no movement and no lights, who would be up and about? But there are some people, like Jean Valjean, who only felt safe to live at night.

But in the small world that was 55 Rue Plumet, with the odd man and his daughter living in the apartment on the second floor, the unpleasant, cold middle-aged couple on the ground floor, and the kind, elderly landlord on the third, there was a sort of life right now. That life could be found in the garden. Two young figures, a young man and lady, she perched on the edge of the well and he lying on the ground. He gazed up at her as though she were an angel, and he had caught her and brought her down from heaven.

The two stared at each other for what seemed to be an eternity. And then Cosette realized that the gentleman she didn't even know the _name_ of was here, in her garden. She opened her mouth to scream. Why was here and how might he have found her? She didn't know and nor did she care to. But just before the shriek could escape her lips, the young man hurriedly scrambled to his feet and took hold of her hands. "Please. Mademoiselle. Don't scream."

She stared into those green eyes. Somehow, she felt as if he would do her no harm, and she somehow felt safe. "Very well," she whispered. "I shan't scream. But you must tell me who you are." Then, with a smile, she added, "and how you found me, Monsieur."

His hands found a lock of her hair. "My name is Marius Pontmercy," he said quietly. "And I do believe I followed an angel."

Cosette shook free with a faint laugh. "All right then, Monsieur Pontmercy. I _see_. Now, why don't you tell me how you _truly_ found me?"

Monsieur Pontmercy seemed to be in a trance. "I've told you, mademoiselle. I followed an angel." Here he turned red in the face and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. I'm doing this all wrong. I do not even know your name."

Cosette smiled at him, a slight half-grin. "Cosette," she told him. "My name is Cosette."

"That's a beautiful name. It's an angel's name. Dearest Cosette … I do believe I might very well be in love with you." Marius stared at the creature before her and felt his heart melt. Or, at the very least, what was left of it, for Cosette had stolen it a very long time ago. Yes, he reflected, women's names ending in '_ette_ truly were the finest sounding names.

The angel before him bowed her head, causing a halo of that golden hair to fall in her eyes. He lifted a hand to brush it away, and she allowed him to do so. Once that strand of fine, spun gold was tucked safely behind one ear, Cosette spoke. "I … I believe I might be in love you, as well, Monsieur Pontmercy," she said breathlessly.

He leaned in to kiss her, and she closed her eyes. Their lips brushed against each other just so before a cry was heard from the house. "Cosette! Cosette, my child, it's getting late! Come in now, darling!"

Cosette nearly leapt away from Marius, her eyes widening. "I must go," she said hastily. "Forgive me. And you must go, too! If my Papa sees you … " She gathered her skirts and took off in the direction of the house with a bright, chipper call: "Yes, I'm coming, Papa!"

Marius stared after her, at the way her locks of hair swished behind her as she went. When Cosette arrived at the door, she turned, offered Marius a small smile, and waved him away. He wished he could have stayed with her longer, and yet … here he turned regretfully and turned back to the fence, which he promptly climbed.

Éponine was waiting for him on the other side. She'd been leaning against a streetlamp, watching him the entire time. When Marius appeared, she stepped out from her hiding place and announced quite bluntly, "I watched you with her."

Marius flushed at this. He felt awkward enough before Cosette, but to think that he'd been watched by Éponine as well! "Heavens, Éponine. Must you have?"

"Perhaps I didn't need to. But I did so. I watched the entire time, you know. You seem to be in love with her, M'sieur Marius."

The young student took her by the hands, spinning Éponine around in a circle. At this the sixteen-year-old laughed in delight, and when at last she was let go, she allowed herself to stumble and fall in his arms. Arms that would hold the Lark many times to come, but for now, were hers. "I am in love with her, Éponine," Marius said seriously. "And you my very own dear, good friend who brought me to her."

Éponine righted herself as he let her go. Marius offered her – "his very own dear, good friend" – one last hasty smile before hurrying away down the street. Éponine watched him go. M'sieur Marius continued at the same steady pace all the way before, at last, she turned on her bare heel and headed the other way.

**::**

_June 21, 1831_  
_350 days_

Éponine had not show up to meet Gavroche the following day. The ten-year-old had waited by his stone elephant the entire day, but with no sign of his elder sister. He had waited all of the next day, too, but when he still did not see her, he gave up. Gavroche didn't go to the Gorbeau tenement – he had no intention of running into either of his parents. His only hope of meeting her was at the Café Musain.

It had been two full weeks since Gavroche last saw his sister now. He sat perched atop a barrel in front of the café, drinking from a glass of cool water the barman offered him. A meeting was due to beginning in a few hour's time, and he had every intention of being there quite early. But there was still a while to go, and he'd wait a long time before even Enjolras showed up.

The shouts of children playing caught his attention and tempted him, as they would any child. That is the strange way of children; they are drawn to each other so easily, like a fish to a worm. The joyful cries drew Gavroche reeled him in, and so he drained his water glass and hopped down off his barrel. Placing the glass down, he began to walk down the street, followed the sound. It sounded to him like a very thrilling and rowdy game was taking place, and he wished to take part in it.

The children in question were found just around the corner, in the main square. There were five of them: three boys and two girls. They were kicking a bottle swaddled in cloth about, often shoving each other to the ground in attempt to reach the "ball". Except for the blonde girl, who couldn't have been a day older than seven, all the children were older than Gavroche. But when the ten-year-old appeared, they stopped their game.

"If you join, we'd make six," the eldest boy declared. "We might be able to have even teams then. Join the girls, then. You're just a kid."

Gavroche scowled. He had no desire to be grouped with the girls and lose, simply because he was younger. "Oi!" he protested indignantly, sticking out his chin in defiance. "I shall join the team I'd like to, thank you. If we have two girls and one kid on one team, we'd certainly lose. No, gents, don't we want the teams to be fair?"

"We could win!" the littlest girl whined, but was immediately silenced. The biggest boy, perhaps fifteen or even sixteen years old, glared at Gavroche.

"So, yer tryin' to be manly, are ya? Fine. Join our team. But we older boys play rougher. Ya've been warned." He crossed his arms over his chest. Addressing the next-youngest boy, he added, "Pierre! Ya can join the girls."

Pierre, a ragged boy of about twelve with shaved blond hair and wearing an over sized coat twice his size, stomped one bare foot in protest. "No! I ain't playing with no girls."

"Ya will if ya wanna play. This boy 'ere's gonna be on our team t'day," the leader said coldly. "It's your choice, of course. If ya don't wish to play, then leave."

Resigned, Pierre joined the girls.

The game was delightfully rough. It had no strict set of rules, but involved chasing the bottle around and kicking it, trying to prevent members of the other team reaching it. There was quite a lot of pouncing and shoving and wrestling, everything any ten-year-old boy could wish for. Gavroche was surprised that even the girls played rough. Heavens, even the youngest (who, he learned, was named Aimée and was barely over seven). He'd been inches from the bottle when she pounced on him with a shout, her little fists pounding his chest until he surrendered, laughing.

But not a long ways into the game, Gavroche caught sight of a figure walking down the road. There were shoes on her feet this time, a pair of black leather boots whose soles were almost completely detached and dragged on the cobblestones. She wore a different dress, though it was just as ragged. This one was of a burgundy hue and around her thin shoulders she wore the same green plaid shawl. Her dark hair hadn't been combed in a week, and there were fresher bruises on her arms as well as the red mark of a slap on her cheek. But all the same, it was 'Ponine and Gavroche abandoned his play to rush to her side, shouting her name.

At the sound of it, she turned, and her grim face widened into a smile at the sight of her brother. "Why, Gavroche! I've not seen you in a while."

He moved to throw his arms around her waist, then paused. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stuck out his chin and glared at her. Being in such a position made him feel quite grown-up and mature. "You did not show up to meet me. I was to take you to the opera. And I did not see you for two weeks. Where have you been?"

Brown eyes slid away from blue. "I was busy. I'm sorry. And then, Thénardier had me work at several arduous tasks for him. Why, I didn't even see M'sieur Marius at all. I couldn't, Gavroche. I'm sorry."

He scrutinized her for the longest time with narrowed eyes, forcing her to squirm in guilt until at last she bent down to his level and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him on the forehead. "I'm terribly sorry, Gavroche."

Gavroche relented, his arms going around her too. Brother and sister stayed in that position of quiet, peaceful, love, until at last Éponine broke it by pulling away. She ruffled her brother's blond hair as she rose. "You may take me to the opera tomorrow. This time, my dear brother, that's a promise."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Now, is there to be a meeting at the Musain today? I was hoping to speak to M'sieur Marius. He hasn't been about the Gorbeau place, you see." Éponine glanced over at the direction of the café. It was true she hadn't seen M'sieur Marius about over the past two weeks. And it was true that over the past two weeks, her father and Montparnasse had made her life a living Hell. Or, even more so than it usually was.

Gavroche lifted a shoulder. "No, I've not seen him at all about the Musain. Not for the past two weeks. We have a meeting every day, and I include today in this list. Marius has not arrived for a single one, and Enjolras is now quite cross."

Here, his words were cut off by a well-irritated shout of the biggest boy he'd been playing with previously: "Oi! Ya gonna come play or ain't ya?!" To this, Gavroche responded with a shout of, "Ain't!" and the other children resumed their play.

The ten-year-old turned his attention to his sister. He added to his previous comment: "If you wish to, ya can speak t' Enjolras. By the way. Why is it you call him M'sieur Marius? He's your friend, ain't he? He's mine. I needn't give Marius such a title."

As if by unspoken agreement, the two began to walk towards the Musain in search of Enjolras, who was in fact quite certain be in the upstairs room by now. As they went, Éponine replied to her brother's inquiry: "Because he is a gentleman."

Gavroche scoffed. He'd never heard a more ludicrous statement in his life! Marius, a gentleman? The very thought was laughable. "Marius? That's a laugh! He's no more a gentleman than I am."

Éponine swatted him teasingly over the head. "M'sieur Marius can read," she teased him. Then, she added more softly, "I do wish you'd let me teach you. I remember how to read, from when we lived in Montfermeil. I still know how to read."

To this, Gavroche scoffed again. "Who needs readin'? I've made it ten – and a half – years without needin' to read a single word, and I'll make it many more years to come."

**::**

He shouldered the door open, his steps heavy footfalls on the wooden floor. He stumbled, half-blind, to the table, sure he was disturbing the customers below with his pounding. At last he dropped the heavy stack of papers down with a thwack so loud it was sure to have caused a natural disaster in some other part of the world.

Enjolras breathed heavily, surveying the room. It was an hour before the meeting was due to start, well before anyone else would arrive. He'd spent the day printing more pamphlets, and working away at an article which might never be published, but would be distributed. Plopping down into a chair, he reached for one of Grantaire's abandoned bottles of wine and took a sip before beginning to file through his article, reading and re-reading it. The young man had only read the article twice through when the door whipped open. Gavroche entered with his usual air of childish cockiness, plopping down into a seat next to Enjolras and putting his feet up on the table. But this time, he had a girl with him.

She was a bit younger than Enjolras was, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age. She was of an olive complexion, with a worn-looking dress on and weather beaten boots on her feet. A ragged plaid shawl was pulled tightly around her shoulders and her face had that impoverished, hollow look about it one saw so often in the slums. Her thin arms were crossed tightly, almost as if she were protecting herself from something. It took Enjolras a moment to place just where he'd seen that face before. "Aren't you – "

"My big sister," Gavroche interjected with a wave of his small hand. "Éponine. She wishes to speak with ya." He jerked his chin at Enjolras. "Be good to her."

Enjolras shoved his stack of papers out of the way and gestured at the seat nearest him, indicating that Éponine should sit. After a moment's pause, the girl did so, placing herself gingerly on the edge of a chair. More silence, which Éponine finally broke by saying, "Gavroche. Out."

He flew to his feet in protest. "What? What's this I hear? Why?"

"Out," she repeated more forcefully. Gavroche huffed and stomped out of the room and down the stairs in the temper only children can muster. All the way down he could be heard muttering to himself: "Out … why must I leave? … this is silly … it's me who runs this town, she'll see … I brought her to Enjolras meself … "

Éponine offered Enjolras a grimace of a smile. "Forgive my brother. He's often quite saucy, and I can only pray he is mild-mannered in your presence treats his friends with respect. That being, yourself and the others."

The mere thought of Gavroche being mild-mannered was ridiculous, and Enjolras snorted a rare laugh. He shook his head. "That brother of yours is too bold by half! All the same, he's a kind, good, child, bless his cocky little soul. Very devoted to our cause. Surely he's told you of our meetings? And, Mademoiselle, if you wished to join us we'd be all too happy to accept you."

Éponine shook her head. "I'm afraid I cannot, thought yes, Gavroche tells me of all his meetings in great detail. I know that he is very passionate. However, I have come to discuss other matters with you."

The disappointment was evident on Enjolras' face as he leaned back. "Very well. Name the matter."

Here Éponine leaned forth, as if discussing very secretive matters that no other ears could hear. "I've come to speak to you about M'sieur Marius Pontmercy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: Terribly sorry about the late update. Think it's been about a fortnight! The truth is, after getting back from that Latin Club competition, I started traveling with the Doctor through time and space, and the TARDIS missed by a few days … sorry about that! Hopefully the Doctor will be fixing her right now while I work.

Also, please note that Pride and Prejudice was published in 1813.

* * *

_June 21, 1831_  
_350 days_

Inside the Musain, customers gathered around the bar gulping down cups of beer and wine. The café pulsed with life and laughter. The barmaid, a young and curly-haired blonde, scrubbed down counters while being bold enough to lower the hem of her neckline just so, causing the men to whoop and applaud. These would be the men of the working class, several who ambled in with faces still streaked in dirt and ash. In the back corner, nearer the window, the wealthier customers turned away from the scandal, utterly repulsed. Newspapers were held pointedly in front of faces, hands creeping out only to sip at cups of coffee or tea. The ladies held fans in front of their faces, also thoroughly disgusted, and whispered to each other of the new gossip and, oh! What might Mademoiselle Something's friend say when she found out?

Amidst this blaring of strange combinations of life, a group of street urchins ran in. Their tiny, soot-covered hands grabbed the biscuits and croissants off the plates of the rich customers. In the blink of an eye, the children were gone again, the only signs of their presence being the shouts of the infuriated upper-class: "Why, you little devils!" "The nerve of them!" "Get yourselves back here this instant, little rats!"

And in a room upstairs, a room that most of the customers didn't even know existed, sat two young occupants. They stared at each other for what must have been a minute before finally, Enjolras responded to the young woman – not so much a young woman as a girl, really – in a hesitant sort of tone: "You wish to speak to me of Marius? Very well. What of him?"

Éponine shifted in her chair. "He is my good friend. And I wish to know if you have seen him or not. Myself, I've not seen M'sieur Marius in quite some time. And … " – she took a deep breath – "I was hoping you could tell me if you've seen him at all."

"No," Enjolras responded. "We have had meetings nearly every day, but indeed, in the past two weeks I have not seen him once. Marius simply doesn't arrive any longer. But if he ever arrives … "

Éponine smiled wryly. "Tell him to come when he wishes to. If he would, of course." Her brown eyes flickered away. What was she doing? How silly of her, to speak to Enjolras and hope he would somehow find Marius! But she'd bothered coming all this way. There was no turning away now. "And I do believe," she added, "there is something you must know."

Enjolras nodded slowly. "All right, Mademoiselle. Tell me."

"He's in love," Éponine said quietly. Hastily she added, "Not with me. With another. A young lady. Rich, bourgeoisie. You might want to know."

Enjolras sighed heavily. "In love, you say? Well, then. It's no wonder he's not come to the meetings! Merciful heavens! Very well, then. Thank you, Mademoiselle." He stood, and Éponine knew he wanted her to leave as well. She also stood, tucking her chair in.

"I shall part," the words slipped out of Éponine's lips in a tumble. "But … tell him for me, if he does come."

Enjolras didn't seem to hear her. He nodded and waved her away. As she darted lightly down the stairs, he called after her, "Send that brother of yours up here!"

It wasn't until she was gone he regretted sending her away like that. Surely, she could have attended the meeting. Helped to spur and plan the great revolution, the promise he could see so clearly but never reach. He could have convinced her. Ah, well. He would need to speak to Gavroche about that.

Meanwhile, Éponine passed through the doorway, nearly bumping into a man who was entering in. "Forgive me," she muttered, not even glancing over her shoulder until she was a little ways out of the café. It was then she got a good look at him.

The man was tall, his shadow stretching out over the cobblestones like that of some kind of terrifying creature. And the man himself was like a shadow, his police inspector's hat hiding his face as he, too, glanced back at her, and his dark coat stiff and crisp and proper. To Éponine, the man – the police inspector – looked rather like one of the villains she came to loathe as a child, the ones which belonged in the pages of her fat books of fairy stories. The man was like some kind of bad omen, Azelma would say.

Azelma believed in omens.

But Éponine now knew there were no villains in fairy stories. The only villains she knew – the only real and true villains – were her father and Montparnasse. Both of whom she'd trusted as a child, in that naïve way of children, and both of whom had betrayed her. Everybody else was just a human. A flawed, broken, human. Some of them might even have been terrible people. But they were terrible humans, not fairy story villains.

When she was young, after the Lark left and Papa began to drink more, she used to think that one of her fairy story villains had escaped its pages and taken possession of his soul. But now, in her eyes, he'd been the fairy story villain from the very beginning.

Éponine stared at the police inspector – the Shadow Man, Azelma would say – until at last he turned away and entered the café. Éponine, too, turned away.

She spied Gavroche seated atop the barrels in front of the café. Her brother sat with his little legs swinging, sipping from a cup of water. He didn't look her way; in fact didn't seem to notice her, as he stared ahead, taking in his surroundings. The people walking by. Éponine watched him in that semi-peaceful state for a minute or two, then sat next to him on the smaller barrel.

Gavroche glanced over, and, at the sight of his sister, smiled slightly. Then, as if remembering the way he was dismissed, he pouted and turned away. "I have had three glasses of water since you threw me out."

"Oh! Well then, that's certainly quite excellent," Éponine teased him, "for having water is very good for the health. It soothes the parched throat, too." As if in reminder, her throat suddenly felt a bit drier. She didn't often have water, for the water from the little well outside of the Gorbeau place was always too dirty for drinking, and besides, she'd not been by there for a few days. Without meaning to, she rubbed at her throat and swallowed.

Gavroche caught the motion. That is the way with brothers and sisters. They will notice your slightest movement, and what it means, even if it is incomprehensibly subtle. The flicker of sadness or fear in the eyes. The slight hunching of the shoulders. The light, free steps of happiness. Or the slight massaging of the throat, the tiniest swallow indicating thirst. He caught the way his sister swallowed, and held out his glass to her.

A grateful Éponine took the glass and swallowed the water in one swig. The sweet coolness tickled her throat as it went down, blessing the dryness. She longed for more, but didn't say anything. Instead, she handed the glass back to her brother.

"'M'I allowed in there now?" Gavroche muttered. "Or are ya still havin' private conversations with Enjolras? What were ya talking to him about, anyhow? I should like to know."

Éponine smiled and ruffled his overlong blond hair. "If it was not private, I would not have asked you to leave. Now, my dear brother, you may go up if you wish. Careful how you go, though – I saw a police inspector entering. You wouldn't want him to discover the secret room."

Gavroche nodded, hopping down from the barrel and slipping into the café door, a little shadow himself. But he, unlike that fairy story-esque police inspector, was a quick one that would disappear the instant the sun shone away from it. The police inspector was a looming one, an ominous presence.

Éponine stared into the doorway, watching for her brother. From here, she could just see the stairs leading up to the secret upstairs room the barman allowed les amis to conference within in private. All she saw was a flash of his blue jacket before he was gone again. Then, she hopped down, wrapping her thin shawl tighter round herself, and started walking back to the Gorbeau tenement.

She didn't want to return, of course, but she had to. She had Azelma to look after. Azelma, who had probably endured another beating or two while her big sister was away. A very dark region in the back of Éponine's mind wondered if Montparnasse had done to her sister what he often to did to her. But she dismissed it the moment it arose. She refused to believe he'd do those things to Azelma. He'd never shown any interest in doing such things to her. It was only Éponine he cared about, in that sense. She didn't know the name for the things Montparnasse did. She knew there was a name, but she didn't know what it was. Didn't want to.

She also had a vague love for her mother. She'd stopped properly loving her mother a long time ago, for Madame Thénardier wasn't much better than her husband. But she, unlike her husband, showed some compassion (if very little) for her children. Or her daughters, anyhow. She'd never given a care about Gavroche at all, hadn't bothered naming him even. Everybody just called him The Baby, until, after they went to Paris and he ran away, Éponine ran into him again a year later. He was no longer The Baby. He had a name now, a good name, and was known by it to everyone.

Gavroche.

Her mind wandered as she walked the long walk to the Gorbeau building. She tried not to think about M'sieur Marius and the Lark. That hurt much more than any slap or blow her father could deliver, or any terrible and nameless thing Montparnasse could ever do to her. But her mind reached that place anyway, the sharp pain of a dagger's blade to her very soul and heart. She thought of the Lark, now so beautiful, too beautiful, giggling and kissing M'sieur Marius. She thought of how perfect they would be together, how easy it would be for them to marry. Both wealthy, in good neighborhoods, where the only dirt and scum that existed was that of bold young urchins desperate enough to beg or steal amongst the rich.

She wondered if that was where M'sieur Marius was right now, and had been the past two weeks. At the door of the Lark. Surely, he was. The way he'd looked at her … as if she was the only thing left in the universe, and was his. Of course, he must have been. She could have gone to look for him there, near the lamp-post just in front of the house. But she didn't. It would hurt too much.

On the other hand, if Éponine was to ever see him again soon … yes, it seemed that was the only option. The only dreadful option.

Tomorrow. She'd wait there tomorrow.

And she'd go home tomorrow too. She wouldn't be able to bear another night at home, with her father and Montparnasse and that dreadful gang.

There is only so much hurt someone can take.

**::**

_June 22, 1831_  
_349 days_

Cosette spent much more of her time in the garden now, especially in the evenings. On the nights she was not permitted to, she would leave her candle on in the bedroom and stay up late "reading." If the faint glow of candle light was visible, Marius would throw a stone with the aim of an expert to bounce against her window, and she would rise. These were the days she couldn't speak to him, but could lean out the window and they might spend an hour just staring at each other.

Today was a day she could be outside. And now that it was June she could even read outside before it was too late and dark. So she sat on the little stone bench, a French translation of Pride and Prejudice open on her lap.

She happened to finally look up, and there was her Marius, at the gate. Cosette laughed slightly and stood up, darting swiftly and quietly over. "Marius!" she whispered. "How long have you been standing there, pray tell, watching me?"

"Not terribly long," Marius replied softly. He took hold of the bars of the fence and began to pull himself up. Cosette stepped back, watching in bemusement as Marius climbed the fence. He nearly fell at the top, but managed to successfully climb over and land – more gently than the first time – in front of her. When at last on sturdy ground and on the right side of the fence, he wrapped his arms around her waist and added, "Besides, I like to watch you read. You seem so very intrigued and fascinated! What, pray tell, are you reading?"

Cosette went to the bench and picked up her book, offering it to him. "Pride and Prejudice," she answered. "Do you know it?"

"Isn't it English?" Marius asked with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, heavens. Don't tell me you speak English, too!"

She laughed softly. "Why, of course I don't speak English. Don't be silly. If you look, you shall see that I am reading it in French. Now, you were telling me a story last night before Papa interrupted … oh, wouldn't you continue?" The two sat on the stone bench, book forgotten, and Cosette leaned her head against his shoulder. "Do finish telling me that story," she begged.

Marius buried his nose in her hair, breathing in its sweet smell. She wriggled free and scowled before resting her head again. Unfortunately, it would seem fate did not wish for him to continue his story, the one he'd been telling of his friends last night. Indeed, watching them both seemingly with no shame was Éponine, her hands tightly gripping the bars of the fence as she peered at them.

It was Cosette who first spotted the waif of a girl. She lifted her head and blinked in surprise. "Marius," she whispered. "Marius, who is that?" Then, as if she feared he might not answer, she called out softly, "Hello? Mademoiselle? May I help you?"

The girl, as if only just noticing she could be seen, immediately stepped backwards and darted behind the nearest lamppost. A confused Cosette turned to Marius. "Marius, did you see that? Do you know who she is?"

Marius winced. "Yes … she's my friend. The one who helped me find you. I've not seen her in a while, but now I believe she must have followed me." He waited for anger, for her to accuse him of dreadful things. Of Éponine being a secret lover, a mistress. She'd demand to know if there where others.

But Cosette only blinked in confusion. "Oh. Well, if you must go … I'd understand. Besides, Papa shall want me inside shortly." She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Do come by tomorrow, though, wouldn't you?"

Marius didn't want to leave Cosette, but she was already standing to leave and so he nodded awkwardly, before approaching her gate and climbing it. He nearly did fall this time, hitting his knee against the cobblestones at the other end and ripping a hole in his pants. He winced slightly as he staggered to his feet. The wound stung and he stopped to inspect it. Marius was surprised to find a few deep, scarlet red beads of blood, which were slowly dribbling from the cut and staining his trousers.

"You'll want to hold a damp cloth over that." The sound of Éponine's voice startled him, and he looked up. She was there, watching him as she sat on the ground, resting her head against the lamppost.

Now, Marius cared for Éponine. He truly did. She was his very own, dear friend, and she'd given him his love for life. But he could not help but feel slightly frustrated with her for spying on him as she was. Cosette was his, his own private, secret angel, in their own private world, and Éponine felt like a bit of an intruder. Even if she was the one who showed him the door and gave him the key.

"Must you have watched me?" Marius scolded her as he rose to his feet again. Éponine hopped up and joined him, quickly falling into step beside him.

"I've missed you," she retorted bluntly. "Where have you been, M'sieur, these past two weeks? I didn't see you once. Not even once! I imagined you'd be here, so I waited. I wished to see you again, M'sieur Marius."

Marius sighed heavily, taking her small, grimy hands in his. "Dear 'Ponine, I understand. But if there is one thing I must beg of you, it is that you do not intrude in my privacies and personal life. You brought me to Cosette, and that is a debt I shall not ever be able to repay. But please. I pray you give me just a bit of … air."

The words sounded harsh and cruel as soon as they escaped his mouth, and he winced internally. But Éponine barely flinched.

Barely.

Instead, she dropped his hands and said softly, "You must place a damp cloth over your wound. Does it sting terribly?"

"Not very much, no."

"That's good," she murmured. "I am glad you're no longer in pain." Then, his sharp words already forgotten, she took his hands again and grinned broadly. It was that same grin he associated with Éponine now, one of real happiness mixed in with a boldness that pertained only to her. A smile with a strange sort of combination between the wisehood of an old woman, and an excited little child. "Let's run."

"Run? Where to?"

"To the Gorbeau tenement!" Éponine said pointedly. "Come on, then, run with me!"

And run they did, laughing, hand in hand, all pain behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: A slightly shorter chapter this time, and it's a bit late, but hopefully you will still enjoy it.  
I recently heard that if you don't put disclaimers up, your story could be deleted, so I will start that now. I do not own _Les Misérables__, _as I have not recently become a genius storyteller from the 19th century. This does not, in any way, prevent me from singing _On My Own _at the top of my lungs in the shower.

**::**

* * *

_June 22, 1831_  
_349 days_

In the dead of night, even if it's still slightly light out, the only real life is that of the poor. The urchins, the beggars, the fallen women, what the rich thought of as the lowlife scum. And the people who'd be out so late at night, that lowlife scum, would walk with hunched shoulders and bowed heads, lives that could have been shut up inside of frail shells of bodies. The women would line up against the wall with nearly transparent skirts, clad in bright colors and hats and scarves that failed to reflect the dark misery that was their reality. The beggars would huddle underneath street lamps in clusters, hands stretching out in prayer to passersby that wouldn't spare a coin, either because they had no money to give away or, more likely, because they were unwilling to. The urchins, not all of whom knew to pick pockets, would hurry along and tug on coat-tails, begging for a crumb or two. More commonly, their little bodies would remain hunched against the wall of a building or under a bridge, never to move again.

Perhaps that is why Marius Pontmercy and Éponine seemed so out of place that night. Their hands intertwined as they ran, both of them laughing in such a fashion that was most questionable and shocking. It was not so much running, really, as it was stumbling, both of them doubled over and leaning on the other for support.

At last they arrived at the Gorbeau tenement. Stumbling to a stop, still laughing, they leaned against the wall of the decrepit building, sliding down to sit on the ground.

Éponine craned her neck up, taking in the sight of the stars above her. As a child, she'd never taken much interest in stars. Those days in Montfermeil, when everything that really mattered were her dolls and her dresses. But when the inn shut down, after Papa started drinking and turning angry fists on his two daughters and she stopped thinking of him as her father, she'd count the stars. She'd lie on her back, when they were living in the streets, sharing a ragged blanket with Azelma, and look up at the stars. Bright silver things in the blackness her life had become. She'd been barely over twelve years old, and she would spend her time trying to count those stars.

Sometimes she still counted them.

She and M'sieur Marius sat there in a gentle, tranquil silence, as if floating in bliss. But the walls of her world were shattered with the shouts coming from upstairs. Her father, of course. She could hear him from down here. He was shouting at Azelma, and Éponine could practically see the spit flying from his mouth, see his hands grabbing her younger sister and shaking her roughly.

Éponine said nothing as she hastily scrambled to her feet. M'sieur Marius glanced up at her. He knew where she going, and why. He, too, said nothing, as the sixteen-year-old hurried into the building and took the rickety steps two at a time. The door, as usual, was unlocked. She shouldered it open – the knob had fallen out a long time ago – and stepped inside. What she saw wasn't pretty.

Her father had taken hold of Azelma's skinny wrist and was now shaking the girl violently. She rocked back and forth like a limp rag doll, her eyes wide. She donned a black eye and there were bruises all down her pale little arms. Her auburn hair was a tangled mess, even more so than usual. Thénardier continued to shout at the poor girl, spit indeed flying from his mouth: "You stupid creature! How could ya – "

"Why, if it ain't our 'Ponine 'erself. Nice to see ya."

The cool, light words of Montparnasse cut the man short. Thénardier turned to look at Éponine, standing in the door frame. He dropped Azelma's wrist so suddenly the ginger girl fell backwards onto the bed.

"And where the bloody _hell_ have you been, eh?" His words were quiet. Éponine hated it when he got quiet. She made an effort not to let her voice break or tremble when she replied.

"I have been away. But now I have returned."

Thénardier approached his eldest child. "Kind of ya," he sneered. The slap came next, but it was not unexpected. Éponine winced slightly, her hand moving towards her cheek. She glared at the man in front of her, the man she could no longer even think of as her father. Still in his old uniform from when he was a sergeant, which had since soiled and gone ragged, his hair greasy, his cheeks a ruddy red from excessive drinking, the leer that always seemed to haunt his face.

Éponine turned away, sitting on the bed. Now she could look around the flat, at last. Azelma was huddled in the corner furthest from the window. Her mother was absent, as were the other members of the Patron-Minette. Only the omnipresent Montparnasse remained, lurking there. He flashed Éponine a grin that made her blood run cold.

"Well then," Thénardier muttered. "I've written a few letters. Now that yer back, ya can go out for me and send 'em. I couldn't 'ave yer sister deliver them on her own. Ya know how she is, 'Ponine, stupid girl'd get lost."

Éponine and Azelma said nothing. Both had long since gotten used to insults from their father. Instead, Éponine stood again and gathered the letters in question, which lay scattered across the scarred old desk, the wood rotting away just as her father rotted away, slowly but surely. Now she held one hand out to her sister. Azelma rose and took it.

It wasn't until they were outside that Éponine pulled her sister aside, hidden behind the well. M'sieur Marius was gone, most likely he would not return until morning. He usually left when her father acted at his worst.

"'Ponine?" questioned Azelma. "We must deliver Papa's letters."

"No, we shan't," was Éponine's blunt reply. "I should think I'm tired of having him order us around as he does." She took the envelopes, tore them in half, and tossed them into the well. Azelma could do nothing but let her mouth fall open in a small "O". After she seemed to have recovered somewhat from the initial shock of her sister's bold behavior, the elder continued: "I shall tell him all those people threw us out. Tell him that the old man chased us out, shaking a broom in his hand. I took a look at those addresses, they're all in bourgeois neighborhoods. I'm certain they would have thrown us out anyway."

"But … " Azelma still appeared to be struggling. "But Papa shall beat us! And where shall we stay overnight?"

"Somewhere," Éponine answered her simply. She took a long look at her younger sister. Closer up and in this lighting, Azelma looked far worse off than she had in the flat. She could see how swollen her black eye was, and she could see more of the bruises down her arms. If possible, she looked even thinner and smaller than she had the last time Éponine saw her.

Small, skinny, and pale, Azelma had always looked young for her age, especially since their arrival in Paris. Shortly before they'd sold the inn, she'd been sickly most of the time. But when she was about thirteen, she simply stopped growing. It was as if her growth had been stunted entirely. Éponine looked her sixteen years, even a little bit older than that, but Azelma looked closer to twelve. The auburn-haired girl would be sixteen in September, and a few weeks ago, she'd secretly whispered to Éponine once that she still hadn't begun her bleedings. This had concerned Éponine slightly – the brunette started _her_ bleedings when she was twelve.

She swallowed at the sorry sight that was her sister. But she put on a tight smile and held out her hand again. "Come. Let's see if we might find a bridge for under the night. Or perhaps we'll lodge with Gavroche."

Azelma's hazel-green eyes flickered back nervously to the house. In the window, the silhouette of their father could be seen, a black shadow against a pale golden glow that were the candles. "What if he sees us?"

"He won't. At least, he won't if we don't stay about here."

Azelma's eyes lingered on the pacing shadow a moment longer before nodding and following her sister. They began to walk down the dirt path. Before long they, too, were just shadows in the night with nothing to hint that they'd been there before.

**::**

_July 11, 1831_  
_329 days_

The world seemed colder today, which was very odd for July, Gavroche reflected as he trotted through Paris' streets. A chill bit at his skin and he hugged his worn little blue vest closer. At last, he plopped down under the eaves of an abandoned warehouse. He knew where all the warehouses in the city were, and he knew which ones were already occupied. He'd sleep in this one overnight if it didn't have rats.

Yes, he knew every building there was to know. Which ones were drafty and which ones had rats. Which ones smelled and which ones were occupied. He always made note to avoid the old warehouse two blocks north of his elephant. There, a gang of bigger boys would lurk, and they often had clubs to beat intruders with. They'd given Gavroche a beating once, when he'd accidentally stumbled upon the old building and thought to sleep there for the night. The warehouse had been much warmer than his stone elephant, and he'd been sorry to leave it, but he wasn't about to let himself be beaten for the sake of meager warmth.

Besides, his stone elephant was much grander and far more impressive than that old warehouse was.

"If you kick a dog when he's just a pup," Gavroche had muttered to himself after being chased from their warehouse. "You'd do well to run for cover when that pup grows up."

That had been nearly two years ago, but he still remembered those big boys. Sometimes, Gavroche would still see them, hanging about their warehouse with their clubs at hand. They were still the same boys. And when he grew up, they had better run for cover. From him, the King of the Streets, all grown up.

He wrapped his blue jacket around himself tighter still, before getting back to his feet and resuming his trot to the Musain. He strolled into the café with an air of dignity and did not so much as look about on his way to the secret room upstairs. Only when he was at the door of the upstairs landing did he hear someone address him, and only then did the ten-year-old pause and turn.

"Boy!" the voice came again, gritty and rough with command. Gavroche leaned over the banister only to see a man looking right up at him. It was a police inspector, seated at the table nearest the stairs. Gavroche leaned further over the banister.

"Oi! Can I help ya with something?" he called. His heart started to beat a bit faster.

The inspector nodded. "What, pray tell, is that room up there? I have seen you climb these stairs nearly every day. Are there some kind of meetings going on?"

Gavroche's bright blue eyes narrowed slightly. He could tell something was amiss, and that this police inspector wasn't asking innocent questions. So the ten-year-old put on what he desperately hoped was a confused, innocent face and replied, "Nah, not than I know of. I'm bringin' some wine down to the bar. I work 'ere for the bartender sometimes."

The inspector gave him a long look before finally nodding. "I understand, boy. Thank you." Here he stood, offered a curt nod, and strode out of the café with his hands folded behind his back. The scruffy little urchin boy stared after him for what must have been a minute there on the stairs, until at last somebody bumped into him. He tripped and fell backwards, only to find himself staring straight up into the stern, irritated face of Combeferre.

"Gavroche!" the bespectacled student chided. "Don't you know better than to loiter on the stairs? Inside at once, now. What if someone were to discover us?"

Gavroche stood and followed Combeferre into the secret upstairs room. "I was being terribly busy, 'Ferre, being interrogated by a police inspector," the young boy defended himself haughtily, using the nickname Combeferre hated so much. Crossing his arms over his chest, he plopped down into a chair and scowled up at the young man. "Forgive me for being such a bother." He gave a sly glance over to Enjolras, hunched over his papers. Unfortunately, Enjolras was too absorbed in his own work to even notice anyone had entered.

However, Gavroche's words caught Combeferre's attention. The young man sat down in a chair opposite Gavroche, leaning forwards, concern wrinkling his brow. "Interrogated? Whatever happened?"

Gavroche shrugged. "Well, he asked me about the room. I told him it was where they kept the wine, and I was fetchin' it for the bartender, that I worked for him sometimes. He left after that."

Combeferre rubbed at his temples. "Well, that isn't good. Not good at all. We shall discuss this with Enjolras once the meeting begins and everyone else arrives. I do believe our Apollo has not even sensed our presence."

Indeed, Enjolras didn't respond and Combeferre looked around the room. There hadn't been a meeting in nearly a week. "I shall be performing some … renovations," Enjolras had explained. Now Combeferre saw what "renovations" meant.

Nearly every wall had been covered in pamphlets and posters, some of which were printed and some of which were hand-drawn. Where there weren't posters, there were French flags and all the tables had been covered in scarlet red tablecloths. _Vive la France_, _Vive la Republique_ and _Vive la Révolution_ had been written on the door in French flag-colored paint. Combeferre wondered if the bartender had given Enjolras permission to vandalize his storeroom so blatantly.

Well, he was Enjolras. So really, what could you expect?

Gavroche and Combeferre spent the next hour downstairs, in the café. Here the student would buy the urchin a dinner, which the child ate greedily. Afterwards, they returned to the room upstairs. This time Enjolras was pacing the room, and when they entered he looked up.

"Thank the heavens you're here," he said. "The meeting is due to start in precisely – " he looked at his pocket watch – "twelve minutes. And fifty-six seconds. Less than that now, of course. I was beginning to worry everyone would be late."


End file.
